The Parenting Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
by BonnySunshine
Summary: An adventure in which Sherlock and Irene Adler become the parents of two very precocious infants (how they managed to procreate, no one is really sure), and their consequent journey through childhood alongside the slightly less precocious, but equally adorable Watson children. Shenanigans occur, chaos ensues, and fun is had by all. Written with izzybizzy333.
1. The Adventure Begins

Dr. John Watson was bored.

This thought came upon him as he sat in his small examination room, eating his lunch and watching the midday news. A recent bank robbery had sent the media into their usual frenzied panic, trying to convince the all of the retirees, stay-at-home mothers, and anyone else who had the time to watch the telly during the day, that the world was ending and the only way to stave off the apocalypse was to stay tuned. As he watched the baffled Detective Inspector assigned to the job give a halfhearted press conference, spouting all the standard issue police jargon; pursuing suspects, following up on leads, exercise reasonable caution, he wondered about what his old friend, and former flatmate, Sherlock Holmes was up to at the moment.

Although John and Mary had promised Sherlock that they would stay in touch and visit often, and they had sincerely meant it, the arrival of their first child had changed things quite a bit for the Watsons. John had found he really enjoyed fatherhood, and treasured every moment with his son, Henry, and looked forward to the new one on its way, but being a parent took a lot of time and energy, and before he knew it, it had been six months since he had seen Sherlock. The last time John had visited 221B Baker street, Sherlock had been out on a case, and John had been subjected to an hour of Mrs. Hudson's latest news, and of the world renowned detective's many talents, returning calls was not one of them. The last he had seen of his friend was at his son's first birthday party, which he attended only long enough to give his favorite nephew a rattle which he had lifted from the scene of a grisly triple murder he had been working on earlier that day, leaving John to find his son giggling and chewing on a bloodstained piece of evidence.

But even for all his domestic bliss, and his insistence to Mary that he did not "some time with his boyfriend" as she put it; deep down, as time marched on in its steady, everyday pace, John felt more stagnant and ill at ease with each day, and occasionally longed for the days back on Baker Street, where he could drop everything at moments notice to take off on some wild, death defying adventure with the one and only 'consulting detective'.

John was shook from his reverie by a faint knock on the door to the exam room. Quickly putting his food down, he turned to face the door.

"I'm sorry, but I'm on my break right now, but if you'd like to come back...later…"

John's voice faltered, then fell away completely, shocked into silence by the last person he would have expected to show up in his exam room, someone he thought he would never see again.

Irene Adler.

Although undoubtedly her, somehow she seemed changed. Tall and graceful as ever, she wore a perfectly tailored silk dress that framed her buxom figure perfectly, the colour bringing out the feline green of her eyes. Her red hair was in a low ponytail over her shoulder, and under the carefully calculated veneer of makeup she wore, she looked tired. She quietly shut the door and surveyed both the office and it's owner with scorn, a patronizing smirk on her elegant face.

"I must say Doctor, I never had much faith in your talents as a physician, but even I thought you'd do better than this." she drawled slowly, her smiling widening at the obvious shock she had caused her unassuming victim. John simply still there, frozen, sandwich still in hand, completely and utterly stunned the appearance of Irene in HIS doctors office. It what isn't just that he had thought her dead, John never ruled ANYTHING as impossible mean Sherlock was involved, but WHY would Irene come to see him and not Sherlock? John had never been of the slightest interest to the Woman, why should it suddenly change now?

His mouth fell open. Dumb shock was not his usual dish for lunch, but it seemed to be cropping up more and more nowadays. An intercom buzz stirred him.

"John, are you okay? This lady blew right past me. Should I come in there?"

He almost considered letting Mary take care of this, amusing as it would undoubtedly be, but it didn't seem prudent. She was here for something, and must be not at her best to have not noticed the dangerous force that was his wife.

"No, Mary, we'll be fine."

What possible need of him would she have now that he was no longer living with Sherlock? How could she possibly still be alive when he had SEEN her die? Questions swirled through John's mind, most of them containing expletives, and all of them concerning Sherlock.

"Speechless, are we doctor? I do find that to be such an unattractive trait in men." She said, now standing no more than 10 feet from him, examining her nails cooly. Her barb broke John out of his shock, and he replied

"That tends to happen to me when I see the dead come back to life."

"Really? After Sherlock's stunt at St. Barts, I would think you would be used to it by now. " She said laughing; John refrained from joining her, as he got the distinct feeling she was laughing at him, rather than with him.

"Why are you here, Irene?" John said, cutting to the quick. He knew she wouldn't have come if she didn't have a reason, and he didn't enjoy her making fun at his expense. At his words, Irene let out a small sigh and shifted on the table, as if she were uncomfortable.

"I need the expertise of a doctor. I have a certain... medical condition, that I need examined." She said

"Why come to me? I'm sure there are a dozen Doctors more qualified than me in London, and with offices you can step into without sullying your designer dress..." John quipped sarcastically, still suspicious of her motives.

Silence, for a few moments, as John waited for her to speak; when she did, it was in a softer, almost vulnerable voice, her green eyes turned up to him for maximum effect.

"Not anyone that I can trust. I can't risk being recognized as Irene Adler; if any of my friends from my old life saw me, everyone I ever cheated would be hunting me again. I need to stay under the radar." Her beryl eyes looked at him with innocent sadness, every fiber of her being radiating the damsel in distress.

"You didn't actually think that would work, did you?" John said, disbelievingly. He may not be as smart as Sherlock, but she couldn't think him stupid enough to fall for that act again. As soon as he said those words, her facade vanished, and the calculating feline was back. Irene smiled at him, slightly impressed with his deduction, her impression of him rising ever-so slightly.

"Actually yes. Most people fall over themselves trying to help me when I play the damsel in need." she said, blasé in her discussion of manipulation, then continued.

"It was true what I said though, I can't go to any high society doctors for risk of being recognized. I suppose I could go to the black market doctors, but you were preferable because you'll work for free." Irene said, a coy smile on her face.

"I will, will I?" John responded hotly. Of course he would've helped her if she had asked, but he hardly appreciated his help being assumed.

"Yes. You will." She said matter of factly, shrugging her aristocratic shoulders.

"After I tell you what my medical condition is, you will give me anything and everything I need, and you will do it free of charge." She continued calmly, in a voice as soft as silk, staring him straight in the face.

"Why is that?" John said through gritted teeth.

She laughed airily, as if the answer was simple, then gestured to her abdomen.

"Because I'm pregnant, and Sherlock is the father."

"Holy…"


	2. Conversations Are Had

"Shit, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, as he paced in front of the fireplace in a state of frenzied panic. Sherlock sat in his armchair, warming himself by the fire, resining his bow in the perfect picture of unworried ease.

John had spent the rest of his work day in a daze of confusion and worry, questions running through his mind unceasingly, that only Sherlock could answer. _Was Irene telling the truth? If she was, could she be trusted? Did Sherlock know? Did MYCROFT know? Why did this happen? HOW could this happen? _Quickly decided he probably didn't want the answer to that last question, all John was certain about was that Sherlock would PAY if he had told the homeless network before him again.

True to his form, Sherlock had ignored all 20 of John's calls, and increasingly violent texts. Which is why, at 9 in the evening, rather than relaxing at home with his wife and son, he had found himself, once again, in front of Baker street, wrapped up in another one of Sherlock's dramas.

"I don't know why you are reacting so poorly, John. I am simply fulfilling my biological mandate to progenate the human species. After all, do you really expect me to leave the business of solving crimes to the _police_ after I retire? _Someon_e must shoulder the burden of their stupidity." Sherlock drawled, as he played a slow tune on his violin, then shrugged and added

"and besides, Mother has been quite insistent in her demands for grandchildren of late,and she's long since given up on Mycroft to provide them. I suppose the creeping reality of mortality reaches even the simple eventually."

John ceased his pacing just long enough to give his friend a reproachful glare, before returning to his previous state of panic; only the Holmes brothers would refer to one of the world's premier mathematicians as 'simple'.

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous! How can you take care of children when you can barely take care of yourself! Mrs. Hudson has to bring you food to make sure you don't starve yourself for God's sake!" John yelled

"And what about your job, you oblivious arse!? What will you do when you have a case? Bring the pram along to a murder scene?!"

"Of course not John, children are a completely unnecessary distraction on a case, at least, before they can walk that is." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at his friend's antics.

"So what? Will Irene be raising your spawn in America, then? Maybe she'll show them how to dismantle a government, or the proper uses for whips too!" John spat sarcastically.

"Nonsense, that's nothing I can't teach them myself! Mrs. Hudson will help, she does so little already. Or perhaps Mycroft." Sherlock said, shrugging.

The thought of two wailing babies in the Diogenes club, while Mycroft tried to feed them humoured John just enough to allow him to slide into the chair opposite Sherlock's; he hadn't been getting enough sleep lately, and he could feel the weariness in his bones. He leaned his head into his hands, and began massaging the migrane out of his temples as he spoke through gritted teeth.

"We both know that Mary and I are going to end up doing the work, Sher. You'll run off on one of your cases, and we'll pick up the slack, because that's what we do. You're even more oblivious than I thought if you think you can become a father without anything changing in your life. In eight and a half months, two babies will be totally dependant on you. Do you realize how selfish it was to make that kind of a decision without thinking it through?"

Shocked and slightly puzzled, Sherlock put down his violin, and met his best friend's eyes seriously for the first time that night.

"Two? Are you certain?"

"Yeah, Sher. I did the sonogram myself, you're having twins." John said sleepily, contented that his words finally seemed to be getting through to the world's thickest consulting detective.

"How did the exam go? You never did tell me." Sherlock said, settling back into his chair the way he always did when he was listening to a client, gathering information and deciding on the best course of action.

And John obliged him, informing him that both babies were healthy and growing normally so far, relating to him with sheepish dread of how he had seen Irene Adler completely nude, once again, even after giving her a gown and explicitly telling her she should keep her undergarments _**on**_, and how Mary had walked in on this awkward exchange to bring them the sonogram jelly (John doubted Irene had any idea of how close she had come to death that day), until finally, they lapsed into their old, comfortable silence that came with years of friendship.

"You do realize what a big responsibility this will be, don't you, Sher? Mary and I will help of course, but we can't do everything, there are going to be things that only you can do, as a parent. Twins are no easy feat either, are you sure you're ready?" John mumbled, dozing off, as Sherlock picked up his violin once more and began playing a slow lullaby.

"Well, you never know. One twin could absorb the other, and then I'd only have to raise one; that's what happened with Mycroft." Sherlock replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

Truly, Sherlock was not worried a bit over the safety of his unborn children, they would be Holmes children after all, and Holmes children were born with a keen sense of self preservation; anyone related to Mycroft would be reduced to a blithering madman instantly without it. And besides, what a fabulous experiment this would make! To be given two blank slates, to raise and educate without all the frippery and needless trivia he and Mycroft had been forced to endure, to be able to share his work and passion with those smart enough to fully understand it. He would teach them everything he knew, and they would join him in his world, and perhaps, for the first time since John had left, he would no longer feel so alone anymore.


	3. And So It Begins

******8 ½ Months Later**

**Christmas is a time of joy, love, and peace; that is, if you're ****_not _****the best friend of a sociopathic consulting detective who knocked up a former dominatrix. In that case, Christmas means chasing the aforementioned detective through London in a desperate bid to find him before a group of trained assassins do. **

**The day had begun very normally for the Watson family; Henry, at two, had an enthusiastic love of all things Christmas, waking them up at the very crack of dawn to open his presents, while Mary showed the newborn James how to clean the gun she had received as her gift.**

**They had, of course, invited Sherlock to the festivities, but he had declined, just like the two years before, stating that the best gift he could receive was ****_not _****having to participate in a manufactured holiday glorifying an obese housebreaker, or perhaps an interesting murder.**

**John would have invited Irene as well, out of love for his friend and support for the family they were starting; but outside of the regularly scheduled doctors visits, most of which were spent trying to explain why bondage did indeed count as extraneous physical labour, he hadn't seen her at all. When this thing had started, John hadn't expected it to be normal; marriage had always been out of the question where Sherlock was concerned, but he had expected them to at least live in the same city or visit regularly now that they were about to become parents.**

**On the single occasion he had asked Sherlock about it, he had replied with his customary snarkiness, showing him the woman's latest stream of flirty text, asking why he should know one woman's location in all of Christendom when there were so many other interesting things going on.**

**"****Oh, I don't know, Sherlock, maybe because she's pregnant. With ****_your _****children. And you haven't even discussed how you plan to co-parent across the ****_Atlantic Ocean_****."**

**"****They'll be staying with me, ****_obviously_****. The Woman's travels keep her far too busy to raise children," Sherlock had said, scoffing at John's ignorance of the situation.**

**"****Don't do that, Sherlock. Don't give me nothing, and expect me understand the entire situation in one glance, you know I can't do that," John said fiercely. **

**Their conversation had ended there, Sherlock had been stubborn, John had been defensive, and he had left Baker Street in angry silence. ********(****They hadn't spoken since, Sherlock had been wrapped up in his interesting new case, the four people found in the Thames killed in identical manners, with no discernible connections to one another whatsoever, and John had been hurriedly preparing for Christmas the next week.********)**

**Christmas morning had dawned clear and bright, with just enough snow on the ground for snowmen, and just warm enough to make it pleasant to be outside. John had taken little Henry to try out his first tricycle that he had just found under the tree, and John thought to himself that the day was shaping up to be rather perfect.**

**That was his first mistake…**

**John's phone rang for the first time during breakfast; he had quickly ignored the unknown caller and went back to his family. On the fifth call from the same number, John finally answered irately.**

**"****Someone had better be dead," he snapped.**

**"****Sherlock Holmes will be if you don't find him… ****_now_****." The voice on the phone was unmistakably Irene's, but she sounded unlike John had ever heard. Gone was the cool, calm facade she she always maintained, designed to keep one constantly guessing as to her objective and emotions; this was Irene at her core, even panting in excruciating pain, still single mindedly focused on her goal. **

**The doctor in John took hold of him immediately, pushing all thoughts of family and holidays to the side; his voice became calm and clear, formed from years of experience dealing with people at their worst.**

** "****Irene, you're in labor a full two weeks early. Nothing to worry about though, twins usually come a bit before their due date. Now tell me how far apart your contractions are, and we can figure out whether we have time to get you to a hospital." **

**Mary wisely began to herd the children into the other room.**

**"****I don't need you to to meet me at the Hospital, I have an OBGYN standing by at St. Bart's. I need you to find Sherlock, he's been avoiding me so far, John. If he's not here by the time I'm finished, I ****_will _****make him pay."**

**The line disconnected without his answer. It wasn't needed, they both knew that. John sighed, A Christmas spent chasing down Sherlock Holmes for a homicidal pregnant woman. Did the universe hate him?**

**That question was answered when he called Sherlock and informed him that Irene was in labor.**

** "****Are they Braxton Hicks contractions?"**

** "****No, Sherlock, they're real. You need to get to the hospital to help her through this."**

** "****Hmm. No. Too busy. Happy Christmas, John."**

** "****Don't you dare hang up on me, you tosser…"**

**Click. It did indeed hate him.**

**After uttering some choice obscenities about the world's most annoying consulting detective, he turned to explain the situation to Mary, only to find her handing him his keys and a travel mug of eggnog.**

** "****I don't have to go, Mary. My place is here, and I'm sure the situation will sort itself out," John said, knowing full well that it wouldn't.**

**"****John, trust me, if you don't find Sherlock, it will end badly. If you had missed our children being born, it would have been the last thing you had ever done. For Sherlock's sake, find him before Irene does."**

**"****My life does not revolve around Sherlock Holmes!"**

**"****You should really go into t-shirt design. We'd be much better off," was her parting remark as he grabbed his jacket off the rack, kissed Mary and the kids, and ran out the door.**

**John arrived at Baker Street 20 minutes later, thanks to the light holiday traffic, ready to throw Sherlock over his shoulder like he did with his two year old when he misbehaved, and ****_take_****him to the hospital (it was rather astounding how many similarities Sherlock had to a two year old sometimes), only to find him nowhere to be found.**

**What John did find was his former landlady, slightly tipsy, drinking spiked eggnog, slathering icing on singed sugar cookies. Her face lit up when she saw John, and she offered him one, which he took with trepidation.**

**"****John! How lovely to see you! Have you come along to see Sher? He's gone off chasing one of his murders, can't say when he'll be back. You're more than welcome to stay for some food though, 'til he returns," She said, sitting him down at the table, beginning to fix up a plate of turkey and cranberry sauce; the smell reminded him that he had never finished his breakfast that morning, and he took the food eagerly.**

**"****Do you know where Sherlock is exactly! Irene has gone into labor and I need to find him," He asked between bites.**

**"****I don't know much. He ran out of here as usual, yelling something about a bank heist done from the inside out." **

**John nodded as he chewed, he had heard about that on the news lately, a crew had stolen 6 million dollars from a vault, escaping from the ****_inside _****out. The bank was in the financial district, he could get there in less than 20 minutes if the traffic stayed the way it was, it seemed like things were finally looking up to be able to get home in time to see the kids open up their gifts from Santa.**

**"****I swear, if Sherlock has left that poor girl all by herself to deliver those children, I'll kill him myself! And if he thinks I'm going to be the one to raise them, he's even dafter than he seems. I am ****__****not ****a babysitter." She said, hiccuping halfway through her rambling.**

**John stood up, relieved for an excuse to leave without having to endure more trivial details of the day to day life of his former landlady than was necessary for polite conversation. He gratefully took the go-bag of food had given him, kissed her on the cheek, and headed out the door, with a dark sense of foreboding telling him things would not be as simple as he had hoped, but when was ****_anything _****simple concerning Sherlock Holmes?**

**********Author's note: ****Sorry it's taken us so long to finish the chapter, university just started back up for me and my coauthor, so updating will be a bit slower. Please be patient and bear with us!**


	4. The Mycroft Who Stole Christmas

As loathe as John was to ask favors from Mycroft Holmes, and knowing full well it would infuriate Sherlock, he knew that Sherlock was so multi-focused and erratic during cases he was nearly impossible to find, and the older Holmes brother was his best bet to locating him in time. Over the years, the brothers had developed their own sort of game, with Sherlock locating and shucking Mycroft's GPS trackers in the most imaginative ways he could think of, and Mycroft showing him up and proving that there was still one left, _obviously, _if Sherlock could actually "use his brain and find it".

So off to Diogenes Club John went, on a snowy, supposed-to-be-with-his-family, Christmas morning to make a deal with the proverbial Devil.

John stood inside the ever silent room, nearly empty today, looking up into the camera, knowing that Mycroft could see him, wherever he was.

"Mycroft, we need to talk, it's about Sherlock."

Silence. Starting to feel a bit silly talking to an inanimate object without a response, and angry that this was what his life had become, on today of all days, his voice rose.

"Mycroft, if you don't answer me in the next minute, I swear to God, I will start busting up your precious little club. I'm willing to bet that more than a few of these fine constituents are your direct superiors, and it would be a real pain in the ass to have one of your brother's friends harassing your bosses. That, or I could just kick the door in. That works too."

The people reading their papers around the fire seemed to finally take note of John warily, and no more than 30 seconds later, a door opened and the customary security team escorted him into Mycroft's office, where the older Holmes brother sat, eyeing him like a particularly irritating species of insect.

"John, pleasant to see you. Happy Christmas, or whatever it is that they say. What can I do for you today?" he drawled with his customary faux pleasantness.

"I need you to help me find Sherlock," he answered, point-blank, deciding it was probably best to be as straightforward as possible with Mycroft. John had longed since learned that trying to hide things from the 'low level government man' was an exercise in futility.

"And _why_ would I know where my idiot brother is? I'm not his keeper," Mycroft said, with his customary snark, apparently deciding to play innocent.

Unfortunately, John was in no mood to play his game; he could feel the time meant for his family slipping between his fingers in every moment he was not with them. John pulled himself up to his full, if diminutive, height, and met Mycroft's eyes with steely resolve.

"Let's not pretend you don't know Sherlock's location at any given moment, Mycroft. I really don't have to time to play along with this stupid little feud of yours, and neither does Sherlock. Irene's gone into labor, and if he's not there by the time she delivers, I can't say what she might do."

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow, showing no outward sign of worry for his only brother, and met John's fierce glare with a derisive laugh.

"What reason do I have to help my brother out of a situation he knowingly made for himself? I warned him about this idiotic enterprise, but as always, he ran headfirst into something he was unprepared for. Children are nothing but a nuisance, and should be left to the rabble. As soon as the little parasites are born, even the greatest minds will lose focus and be distracted from what is of real importance in this world. As far as I'm concerned, Sherlock can clean up his own messes from now on."

John looked across the desk at Mycroft with indignant disbelief. He had never seen him like this before, he was usually logical to the enth degree, or at least liked to pretend to be. But now, his feelings were showing plainly on his face, the same petulant expression John always saw on his son when he hadn't gotten what he wanted.

"Mycroft, I don't know what your problem is, and honestly, I couldn't give a shit. You and Sherlock have been fighting like children ever since you found out about the babies, and it needs to stop now."

"They are not people, they are parasites." Mycroft interrupted sharply.

"What?"

"They're not 'babies', they're parasites. Everyone is acting like this is such a lovely thing to have happened, but once they are born, they will consume all of my brother's time, energy, and talent, until he's become one of them." he answered bitterly.

"One of _who_?" John asked, utterly baffled, as always when it came to dealing with the thought process of the either of the Holmses.

"A goldfish. A regular person." Mycroft said, so quietly, John had to strain to hear it.

John rolled his eyes in disbelief; for two people with genius level intellect, the Holmes brothers acted just like 3 year olds most of the time; it was really no wonder he had adapted to fatherhood as quickly as he had. Adopting a much softer tone, John stowed his irritation, deciding to adopt a different approach.

"Mycroft, if you think _anything _can make Sherlock Holmes normal, then you're not nearly as smart as you pretend to be. Becoming a father is going to stop him from solving murders or getting himself into trouble, it'll just give him two more people to get himself out of it for."

"You're not losing your brother Mycroft, you're just gaining two more pains in your arse," John finished, expecting some indication of relief or assuagement from the older Holmes brother after his comforting speech.

But instead, looked up to find Mycroft working on his computer, apparently ignoring him entirely.

"Did you get that speech from one of those maudlin soap shows you people are so fond of watching? Entirely insipid if you ask me," Mycroft taunted lazily, scribbling on a scrap of paper, and sliding it over to him. On it was written the address to a bank in East London, not far from where he was. He could get there in another 15 minutes easily, John thought triumphantly, finally something was going his way!

"There you are, you have what you came for, now go pester someone else," Mycroft said, indicating where the door was with his hand, returning to his work.

"I'd recommend getting to him before the assassins do, my information tells me they should be closing in on him within the hour. And John? Nobody is my superior, do remember that." Mycroft said clearly, his last words accompanied by a cold stare.

"I'm making a mental note of it now." John snarked sarcastically, absentmindedly heading for the door, when the first part of his sentence finally registered in his mind.

"Wait, what do you mean ASSASSINS!"

**Author's Note:** Sorry guys, I know its been a while since we updated the story, but we've both been swamped with classes. Luckily, we should be able to write a bit more over Thanksgiving break, so we should be posting again in November.


	5. John Gets Deja-Vu

There were many things John had learned to expect from Irene Adler in the time he had known her; the sarcastic wit, the lack of personal boundaries, the occasional poisoning. But this was a new low for even her, John thought as he frantically punched the number for Irene's room at St. Barts into his phone. After what seemed like an eternity of droning ringing noises, the Woman's voice finally came over the line.

"Hullo, John. Have you found Sherlock yet? I do hope so, the doctors tell me I'm almost ready to deliver," she said in the happy, overly bright tone only used by those under the effects of heavy medication, or just preceding acts of murder, or in Irene's case, probably both.

"Did you hire assassins to kill Sherlock?" John said, clearly and concisely, trying desperately not to lose his temper like he did with Sherlock. He had long since learned that getting angry with Irene didn't do him any good at all; she used emotions like whips, using their irrationality to play with her victims until the she got what she wanted out of them, leaving them broken and beaten in the process. Nothing but emotionless rationality could get through to her and John knew it, that that's why she and Sherlock got on so well.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I didn't hire them to kill him," Irene said, with a girlish giggle entirely foreign to the Woman. Just as John was breathing a sigh of relief, thinking Mycroft must have been messing with him again, he heard her laugh again, and continue.

"No, no, no. I hired them to bring him here. I planned for every eventuality months in advance, including this one. Their orders are to kill him only if he doesn't show up by the time our children are born."

"Irene, if you have a crew of bloody assassins on his trail, then why did you call me out here ON CHRISTMAS to find him?!" He yelled into the phone. Sherlock and Irene were a bloody pair, weren't they, John thought vitriolically.

They deserved each other, and he had half a mind to leave them well enough alone and allow them to figure out themselves. After all, Sherlock was the one who decided he wanted to have kids with a psychopathic dominatrix. He knew who she was when he got himself into this mess; and how like Sherlock to make huge decisions like this on his own, leaving him to clean up the mess when the great bloody git didn't follow through.

But still; John remembered how scared he had been before Henry was born, how unprepared for parenthood he felt. He couldn't blame Sherlock over much for coping the only way he knew how. After a long pause, Irene spoke again,

"They've hit a bit of a… problem," She said. Even over the phone John could hear the purse in her lip.

"You mean Sherlock."

"They followed him to Hyde Park about 3 hours ago, and were moving in, but he called in a fake bomb threat and got them all arrested. By the time they were able to escape police custody, they had lost his trail."

After a long period of silence, she continued

"For some reason, Sherlock has an inexplicable fondness for you. If anyone can find him, it's you."

Slightly stunned by Irene's sudden vote of confidence, (the drugs at St. Barts must have been much stronger than he thought)he sighed and decided to give her a break, after all she was coping with this situation the best way she knew how as well.

"Well, since I don't have anything _else _going on today, let me just go sort that out for you." He snarked. Just because he was going to help her, didn't mean he was going to like it and it didn't mean he wasn't going to give both of them hell once this was over.

"Oh would you? Thank you so much darling. I see why Sherlock is so _keen _on you."

"Irene, for the last time, no one is _keen _on anyone, I'M MARRIED!"

But she was gone. John kicked at the nearest snow pile, cursed at the sky and his own cursed loyalty, and then hailed the nearest taxi.

The Bank of Scotland was a large building covered from top to bottom in glass, reaching so high into the sky above London, you could see most of the city from the top floor. John had been impressed the first time they had visited this place, when Sherlock had solved the case of the Blind Banker here, but now it just made him feel tired. It had only been a five minute journey, but still it rankled John to spend taxi fare on Sherlock Holmes once again. He really needed to start a fund for these things. The chasing-after-Sherlock-on-a-hairbrained

-adventure fund. Greg would definitely chip in. They could have a walk-a-thon. Make Sherlock ride a bloody bicycle, he would.

With the walk of an annoyed soldier, John set in. As he walked through the polished, metallic lobby, he thought about how strange it was that Sherlock would return here. He almost never took two cases at the same place if he could. Liked to keep his atmosphere 'uncluttered' as he put it. Having lived with him, John could attest to the fact that he didn't like dealing with the same people more than once, and more often than not, the feeling was mutual.

As John approached the police barrier just outside the vault, he saw a young looking policeman on patrol. He internally swore and chided himself; he had forgotten this wasn't Lestrade's territory, no one would recognize him, let alone let him into an active crime scene. He quickly racked his brain for ideas. The officer looked like a new recruit, and John might be able to fool him. A minute later, he walked up to the crime scene line as confidently as possible, looking the officer in the eyes as he was brusquely asked who he was.

"I'm a forensic specialist, here to examine the crime scene." John responded evenly,

"Let me see your badge," the officer said, holding out his hand impatiently.

John pretended to search his pockets, trying his best to look the part of the befuddled scientist with his head in the clouds. His years with Sherlock had made him an expert in lying and assuming false identities, with how often they had to do it to get information on their cases.

"Bollocks, I think I left them back at the station. I won't be a minute though, just verifying data."

The officer shook his head, eyeing John suspiciously, and his heart sank. If he got booked because of Sherlock Holmes, again, it might actually make a murderer of him.

"No badge, no access, those are the rules. What's the number of your precinct?"

Just as John was considering a mad dash for the exit, he heard a very familiar voice behind him.

"He's with me."

Sherlock ducked under the rope in a quick, fluid motion, and John followed him, ignoring the baleful stare of the policeman. As they walked toward the vault, Sherlock shot him a sideways glance, and smirked. But John could tell there was tension there; in his fidgety, mechanical movements, and the small facial ticks, lurking behind the ever present insulting ease.

"Did you _really _think that would work?"

"Well I had to try something, didn't I? They weren't going to let some random civilian into a crime scene were they?"

"They let me in here."

"You are not a random civilian." John countered. Sherlock smiled, finally turning to face him.

"Come to assist me, Dr. Watson?"

"No, I'm here to bring to the hospital so that Irene doesn't kill you." Sherlock's face went abruptly cold and controlled as he turned away, his blue eyes turning to ice, and began walking again, sighing in annoyance. John followed close behind doggedly, determined to reach his friend.

"What a waste, a perfectly good assistant like yourself, reduced to Irene's errand boy. Like I said on the phone, John. My work here is far too important, I couldn't possibly leave now." his friend said impatiently, gesticulating to demonstrate his point, as he always did when he was anxious.

"You know she has assassins after you?!" John shot at him, hackles raised by his insult. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted, only angering John even more.

"Those pests? Yes, I already took care of them. Lost them in a matter of minutes, and they called themselves professionals! The Woman really didn't get her money's worth with that bunch," Sherlock said, laughing derisively.

John stopped dead in his tracks, catching Sherlock as he tried to keep walking, and turned him forcibly to face him.

"Did you ever think about why she tried to send assassins after you, Sher? You're going to be a father, you need to step up." he said softly. Yelling at Sherlock got you exactly nowhere; he would either disassemble your argument with logical deduction, or simply ignore you completely, continuing on with what he was already doing. The key to getting through to Sherlock was finesse; you had to be strong enough to hold your own in an argument with the world's smartest detective, but gentle enough to keep him off the defensive. At times like this, John really wished his wife were here, she was infinitely better at this than him. With a few words, she could make Sherlock see what an hour of shouting could not.

Sherlock looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up to meet the eyes of his oldest, and if he were being honest, only friend in the world. With an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice, said,

"Like I told you. I can't leave until this is finished, John."

John met his eyes straight on, and sighed in understanding. How did the saying go? "If you can't beat them, join them?". If Sherlock wouldn't see sense, maybe solving this case would straighten out his priorities some. John smiled up at Sherlock resignedly,

"Well then, we should get started."


End file.
